


The Hunter's Heart

by EyeInTheDark



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: All those other people I don't feel like typing in, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fox and the Hound inspired, Gen, Sad and Happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-20 08:18:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2421671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EyeInTheDark/pseuds/EyeInTheDark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There, huddled beside the log, as if trying to find somewhere safe and warm to hide, was a tiny fox kit..."<br/>*Or*<br/>Daryl finds a fox kit and tries to make it his pet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Abandoned

**Author's Note:**

> Never watch Disney's "The Fox and The Hound" with out tissues close by, and never watch TWD reruns right after to get your "Daryl High" if you don't want this to happen. Set between season 3 and 4.

Disclaimer: I don't own The Walking Dead or any of the characters. All I own is the plot :)

* * *

 

Daryl crouched low in the tall grass, lining up the crosshairs on his target through the scope of his crossbow.

 _Inhale,_ he reminded himself, not wanting his own nerves to ruin a good kill shot. _Exhale..._

He pulled the trigger, a bolt flying free with the familiar * _thunk_ * and whistle of air rushing through the fletching, catching the buck broadside. A perfect kill shot. Straight to the heart or lungs.

The buck staggered a few steps, then fell to the leaf strewn forest floor in a heap. It was dead.

Smirking triumphantly to himself, Daryl moved forward, drawing his buck knife to get started on field dressing. It definitely wasn't his favorite part, but it had to be done.

Ten minutes later, he was burying the guts. It didn't take him more than five minutes to dress the deer, far too many years of practice on his side to be slow.

Once the remains were buried, and his crossbow slung over his shoulder, he proceeded to drag the deer in the direction of the truck he had taken that morning. It was then that he noticed something a bit odd beside a fallen oak tree.

Dropping the deer along with his bow and moving slowly through the grass, Daryl was surprised to see a little ball of fluffy brownish-red fur wiggling beside the fallen tree.

There, huddled beside the log, as if trying to find somewhere safe and warm to hide, was a tiny red fox kit. It couldn't have been more than a few weeks old.

Cautiously, Daryl crept forward, crouching down on his haunches as he drew within three or four feet of the little fox, constantly aware that the mother could be close, and may try to protect her baby by attacking him.

"Hey, there, little guy..." Daryl said in a soft voice, trying not to startle the kit. "Where's your mama, bud?"

The kit looked up, big eyes bright and wary as Daryl inched forward another foot, but made no attempt to escape, just stared at him. Not a care in the world.

Daryl took a mental note of how dirty the little creature appeared, realizing if it's mother was taking proper care of it, it would most likely be cleaner.

"You all alone, little guy?" Daryl asked, another inch in the gap between man and beast closed. "You're mama gone?"

The little fox looked up again, curious and frightened at the same time.

"I ain't gonna hurt ya'..." Daryl promised, reaching out, slow and easy.

The kit made no attempt to bite or move away. Instead, to Daryl's utter surprise, it inched closer to his outstretched hand, whimpering quietly like a regular puppy would.

Gently, Daryl picked the dirty little thing up, cuddling it close to his chest as he checked it for any type of wounds or flaws. Any reason for a vixen to leave it behind.

The kit was nothing but skin and bones, tiny and filthier than he had first thought, but nothing appeared to be wrong with it. No wounds, no broken bones, nothing.

"Well, bud," Daryl looked down at the kit snuggling into his coat and vest like it had been a pet for years. "What am I gonna do with you?"

The kit wipped weakly, burying it's little black nose in his shirt pocket and nipping at the material as if to say, _Take me with you_.

Daryl grinned to himself at that thought.

_Why not? It was just a baby...It wouldn't survive out here on it's own. Especially not with walkers willing to eat anything that dared to breathe, to live._

With a curt nod to himself, his decision made, Daryl shouldered his crossbow once again, then took up the rope tied to the deer's hind legs, dragging it along behind himself, the kit tucked inside his coat and vest nice and snug.

"Not t'day, little fella...Not t'day..."

A few moments later, Daryl heard the distinct growl of a walker, and was quickly on high alert. Lowering the deer gently to the ground, Daryl soundlessly swung his crossbow around in front of himself, aiming it one-armed at the feeding walker five feet in front of him.

The bolt lodged squarely in the back of the male walker's head, and it toppled over on it's kill with a grotesque squishing noise.

Brows furrowed in disgust, Daryl yanked the bolt from the twice dead body and pulled it off of the animal it had been feeding on, immediately feeling a pang of sadness go straight to his heart.

There wasn't much left, but by the redish-brown fur and small bone structure, Daryl knew it was the fox kit's mother without question. It had to be. She had died protecting her baby, a broken ankle the likely sorce of her horrific demise.

"Sorry, little guy..." he murmured, going back to his deer and continuing with the trek back to his truck.

~*#*~

Twenty minutes later, Daryl was driving through the prison gates as Glenn and Maggie threw them open for him, the baby fox curled up in his lap, appearing to have fallen asleep during the drive back to the prison.

Upon pulling up and parking near the other cars, Daryl quickly hopped out of the truck, leaving the deer for the others to admire before anyone cornered him to ask questions about why he was clutching at his stomach.

He nearly tripped over Beth and Judith in the process of making his way to his sleeping area on the landing, then nearly ran Carl over in his haste to get to the kitchen.

"What's your rush, Daryl?" the boy asked, curious as ever.

Daryl whirled, looking very much like a deer caught in the headlights of an 18-wheeler.

"Ain't ate yet," he lied, hoping Carl hadn't seen the lunch Carol had nearly forced him to take along that morning.

"I'll go get Carol so she can make you something," Carl offered, heading for the door.

"No!" Daryl fairly shouted, desperate to get into the kitchen and get out without getting caught.

"Carl looked at him suspiciously.

"I'll make myself a sam'wich or somethin'," Daryl offered quickly. "She's busy helpin' Hershel with that deer by now."

"You got one?!" Carl cried, Daryl's stomach completely forgotten.

"Yeah, I got one," Daryl smirked, happy to see the boy already turning to run out the doors to see the big prize. "Big buck, pretty as ya' please."

"Awesome!" Carl cried, and with that, he was bolting out the door to watch Hershel and Glenn get the deer strung up. Daryl would be expected to skin it of course, but first, he had to take care of his prize.

Hurridly, he fixed a styrofoam bowl of powdered milk, hoping room temperature water was good enough for the little kit.

And then he thought of something: How was he going to feed it?

Looking around in the storage room, his eyes landed on a shelf laden with bottles for Judith.

That should work.

Snatching the bottle, he hurried back up to his hidden treasure, happy to find the kit still sleeping peacefully in the backpack he had stashed it in.

Sitting down cross legged on the floor, he picked it up, offering it the bottle, and the little thing took to it like he was born feeding from human appliances.

Grinning at his accomplishment, Daryl was so engrossed with the little creature's hungry suckling noises that he didn't notice footsteps on the landing.

"What on earth is that?" Rick's voice broke the silence, and Daryl flinched, looking up quickly at the ex-policeman looming over him.

"I-it's-I was jus'---" Daryl was stammering like an idiot, trying desperately to explain himself and failing miserably. "I found it in the woods," -he finally blurted out- "he was all alone. His mama got ripped apart by a damn geek."

Rick knelt down beside the hunter, slightly amused at how Daryl was trying to defend the little creature. It reminded him somewhat of a child getting caught with something they weren't supposed to have for the first time.

"Walker ate it's mom?" Rick asked, reaching out gingerly to stroke the little fox's soft baby fur. "And you're plannin' on keepin' it? As a pet?"

"Why not?" Daryl asked defensively, looking slightly hurt. "It ain't that much different than a dog. I can train 'im. He won't get in the way."

Rick sighed, getting up and heading back down to the first level.

"Alright, Daryl," he called over his shoulder. "I guess a pet around here can't hurt anything. But you'd better give 'im a bath pretty soon. He smells like a garbage truck!"

Daryl grinned to himself, not bothering to reply to the former leader, instead opting to scratch the kit behind the ears and cuddling it close.

"Hear that, bud? You're gonna stick around with me!"

The kit made a little squeaking noise, nipping playfully at Daryl's fingers as if it were saying that that was a good thing. And for once, since it seemed to be a rarity with the hunter, Daryl Dixon laughed.


	2. Raid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh! Only one chapter left! *pouty face* :(

The weeks flew by like leaves in the wind, stretching into months, and with those months, Bullet -as Daryl had fondly named his new pet- grew. And as Bullet grew, so did his interest in Rick's chicken pen.

It was early that first morning, Daryl was on watch in the watch tower, Rick was in the garden, and everyone else was just beginning to start the daily chores.

The racket from the chicken coop alerted everyone within hearing range and they all came running to see what the ruckus was all about.

Daryl finally made it down from the tower, the last on the scene as Rick hauled Bullet out of the pen by the scruff of the neck, handing him off to the hunter with a displeased look in his eyes.

"Daryl," Rick said, tone stern, as if he were reprimanding a child. "A word?"

With his head lowered in shame, Daryl snapped his fingers for Bullet to follow, the young fox trotting along beside him obediently.

"What?" Daryl asked, trying to sound normal and failing.

"You're gonna have t' do somethin' about Bullet, Daryl," Rick started, pointing accusingly at the fox sitting beside the hunter's foot.

"What do you want me t' do?" Daryl asked quietly, chewing the side of his thumb nervously.

"We have t' do somethin'," Rick continued, seeming to ignore Daryl's question momentarily. "Maybe tie him up?"

"Tie 'im up?" Daryl repeated in shock. "Why?"

"You know why, Daryl," Rick gave him another stern look. "We can't have him killin' all our chickens. We can't afford t' lose 'em. Not these days."

"Maybe we could...we could..." Daryl tried to protest, but none of his arguments made any sense. He knew he was beaten, and he gave in with a dejected sigh. "Alright...ya' got a point, Grimes..."

With another sigh, Daryl turned on his heel, clicking his tongue for Bullet to follow, the fox once again oveying his commands perfectly.

Daryl went straight to the storage room and found a good length of rope, taking his pet back outside and tying him in the shade the prison provided.

Squatting down beside the upset fox, Daryl scratched his ears and rubbing his belly comfortingly.

"Sorry, boy," Daryl said sadly to the fox. "If you'd just learn t' stay outta trouble! First Rick's boots, now the hen house! What's next?"

The fox just looked at him, appearing to smile at his master.

"Yeah, yeah, you don't understand a word I'm sayin'," Daryl sighed, standing. "Well, I gotta go help get rid o' those biters hangin' on the fences. Please, be good?"

And with one last glance over his shoulder at the fox, Daryl headed off in the direction of the fences. At least Bullet would sleep during most of the day, hopefully staying out of trouble.

~*#*~

"DARYL!!!"

Rick bellowing his name made the hunter cringe.

"Yeah?" he asked hesitantly as he rounded the side of the prison, met by the sight of one very angry-looking Rick Grimes, Bullet in one arm, a dead chicken in the other hand.

"What did I tell you about this-this-THIS FOX!!" Rick spluttered exasperatedly, shaking the creature in his arm slightly and literally throwing the chicken corpse on the ground. "This is the third time his month!"

"I know," Daryl squirmed, feeling embarrassed and unsure of how to defend his pet. It was a fox's nature to eat chickens. That's just the way the circle of life turned round. He wasn't hunting as much with the Governor out there on the loose, and Bullet was suffering because of it.

"You're gonna have t' do somethin' with him, Daryl," Rick tried to sound patient, knowing this was going to be hard. "We can't have him around if he can't learn t' stay out of the chicken pen."

He nodded, knowing the former leader was right. Without another word, Daryl took Bullet from Rick and headed inside, cuddling the half-grown sadly.

He knew what had to be done. Bullet was old enough to look out for himself. He didn't need Daryl anymore.

Still, it didn't ease the hurt and disappointment Daryl was experiencing deep within his heart and soul. Not even a little bit.


	3. Parting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it. It's been fun.

The next evening, Daryl got in one of the trucks and headed for the woods, Bullet on the seat beside him.

"Just think, buddy," Daryl said, trying to reassure himself as much as the fox. "You'll get yourself a girlfriend, and you'll have lots'a kids. And you can eat whatever you want whenever you want. And you can run for miles without no fences t' hold ya' back."

The fox made a little chattery noise in it's throat, looking at Daryl inquisitively. The hunter quickly turned his attention back to the road, realizing looking at the little creature was only making it harder to control his emotions.

"Don't look at me like that," he muttered, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. "This is hard enough as it is."

The fox turned back to the window, ignoring the hunter.

"You'll probably be a daddy by next spring," Daryl continued to talk to himself, trying desperately to ease the guilt churning in his stomach. "You'll have lots'a babies runnin' 'round."

Twenty minutes later, Daryl was walking through the woods with Bullet racing ahead of him, playing with sticks, darting in and out of hollow logs and just enjoying the new found freedom.

Sitting down on a rock, Daryl waited quietly, watching the fox romp. _It's better this way,_ he thought silently. _It's better for a wild thing to be free...Not cooped up like a regular lap dog..._

When bullet disappeared into the bushes, Daryl stood, hoping the little fox had forgotten all about him and nature would kick in.

But when he was about halfway back to the truck, a familiar yip had him turning around.

Bullet came bounding after him, dancing around his feet and looking like he was about to burst.

"Go on," Daryl pointed. "You have t' stay here...Don't make this any harder than it already is."

The fox ran off a few feet, as if understanding Daryl completely, standing on a fallen log to watch the hunter.

"Go on! Get!!" Daryl cried, flailing his arms wildly, trying to frighten the fox away. "Go find somebody else t' bother!!"

And with that, Bullet was off and running, disappearing into the woods.

Daryl sniffed, scrubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand and trying desperately not to cry. He was a grown man for Pete's sake! A Dixon didn't cry over something as stupid as a fox.

As Daryl opened the truck door, deciding since no one was watching, he was safe, he allowed a few tears to slip, glancing back forlornly at the deep, endless Georgian woods his little fox was now lost to.

"See ya' 'round, little guy..." Daryl murmured, driving off, back to the prison where he belonged.

Meanwhile, on a nearby ridge, sat a half-grown red fox, watching the hunter drive away. His ears pricked up at the sound of something strange, a screaming yip of sorts somewhere in the distance.

Nature quickly took it's course, and Bullet was off and running in the direction of the vixen's cries.

~*#*~

The next spring, Daryl went hunting as usual, staying out until early evening one day.

When a red fox came into the clearing he had chosen to hunt from, he felt his heart skip a beat.

The fox peered around, looking cautious, but after a few moments, disappeared into a little burrow near a fallen log.

Daryl waited breathlessly, hoping the wind wouldn't shift and give his hiding place away.

After a few moments, another fox emerged from the hole, a vixen, followed by five little kits.

"Bullet..." Daryl grinned, knowing his pet anywhere as he watched the stunning creature take up watch from on top of the fallen log. "You rascal, you..."

The hunter watched the kits and parents play for a little while, but realized with a start it was getting dark fast, and he needed to get back.

Still grinning to himself, Daryl made his way back to the truck, happy to know that his little friend was doing just fine on his own.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, what shall Daryl name little foxy? Was thinking Bullet or maybe Arrow? Not exactly sure yet. We shall see...


End file.
